


Broken Bones, Mended Hearts

by kabeswaters



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Fluff, Requested, reallllyyy fluffy, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-22
Updated: 2018-12-22
Packaged: 2019-09-24 17:15:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17104778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kabeswaters/pseuds/kabeswaters
Summary: You and Ron have been sworn enemies ever since your first interaction at Hogwarts.  However, after having and overhearing certain conversations, you begin to wonder if your fighting was based in wanting something even more than friendship.





	Broken Bones, Mended Hearts

The first attempt at distraction was going on a long walk in the early morning, Autumn air, allowing the swooping of winds, chirps of birds, or constant crackling of crisp, fallen leaves underneath your feet to fill up your ears as much as possible. You still found your lips humming the tune, however, so sought out friends at breakfast, hoping if you occupied them with speaking, the lyrics would slip from your mind. And perhaps words left, but you still found yourself clinking your fork against your plate in the rhythm of the song. Even in your favorite classes of the day, you found professors’ voices layered over with overly-enthusiastic lyrics. It wasn’t helping that the subject of the song sat in the seat in front of you, the same smug he had worn during the entirety of yesterday’s Quidditch match on his face, messy red hair blocking your view of the blackboard.

But you had to give credit where credit was due: the song Gryffindors had given Ronald Weasley was as relentlessly obnoxious as the subject matter himself (nevermind the fact it was originally written for Harry Potter). Thus, it fit perfectly, and you couldn’t get it out of your head, regardless of how much you tried. Once again, much like the subject matter himself.

It wasn’t your fault that Ron decided to interrupt you while you were correctly answering a question during first-year Divination, trying to prove to everyone you were wrong, or that he had yet to apologize for it, instead proceeding to get more annoying as your years at Hogwarts passed. Every year you came back from a refreshing summer, with a smile on your lips ready to forgive. And every year, Ron took one glance at your optimistic features and scowled, causing Harry and Hermione to look at you with awkward apologeticness.

As you drew deeper and deeper into the year, that attempted colloquy faded. So, when Ron wouldn’t stop bobbing his head in class as though he was listening to a song he enjoyed—probably relishing in the catchiness of “Weasley is Our King,” the narcissist—making it more difficult than usual to see the writing on the blackboard, you said, just loudly enough so only he would hear, “Merlin, for having such a big head, Ron seems to move it quite easily.”

He turned back to face you almost automatically, his pursed lips and clenched jaw meeting your sly smile. “What did you just say?” he seethed.

You were grinning. “I said, ‘“Merlin, for having such a big head, Ron seems to move it quite easily’.” 

“Clever,” Ron said, sarcasm dripping from his voice and chin jutting out. “You should write a book on how to form the world’s most pathetic insults.”

“And you should write one on how to form the world’s most pathetic comebacks,” you replied.

Ron’s mouth was already opening, overbearingly plump lips moving in the formations of a sentence, but someone spoke before he could respond. “Mr. Weasley, Ms. Y/L/N, is there a problem?” It came from above Ron’s shaggy hair and in the indistinguishable voice of Professor Flitwick.

“I was just asking Ron if he could move over a bit. I was having trouble seeing the board,” you smiled sweetly, fighting the urge to add, “with that huge head in the way,” with the same difficulty it took you to not smack Ron in the arm anytime he was within a few feet of you. 

“How about the two of you trade seats, then?” Flitwick offered. At the same time Ron glanced at Harry for affirmation about the switch, your head turned towards Hermione, the only person in Hogwarts who was slightly as close to having as many arguments with Ron as you have had (you two had both taken the liberty of counting one day, the annoying quality Ron had bringing the two of you into an extremely close friendship). Though she was nodding, permission clear, her eyes were vastly emotionless. With a sympathetic smile, you agreed with Flitwick’s plan and began gathering your belongings.

But leaving Hermione quickly revealed to not be the worst part of Flitwick’s plan: as you passed Ron, his left shoulder brushing against your right one, he let his hand knock the textbook you had in your hand onto the ground. “Sorry,” he smirked as you exhaled a puff of air from your chest. Hoping no one else would notice, you grabbed your book and slid into your chair, making sure to stare darkly at the one Gryffindor caught laughing nearby.

“Don’t take it personally,” Harry whispered, moving his quill and looking up at Flitwick as though he was paying attention. “Ron broke his collarbone from yesterday’s match, so now he can’t play for the rest of the season.”

“Really?” You looked behind you just slightly, noticing that Ron was staring at his collarbone as if it would spontaneously combust at any moment, before turning back to Harry. For a minute your heart struck with pity, remembering your own experience breaking your collarbone in second year, but it was cut off quickly when remembering Ron’s lack of empathy towards you. So you scoffed while asking, “Why can’t he just use Skele Gro?”

Harry’s frown was prominent enough you could see it even though his head was still stuck on Flitwick. “He’s allergic. While it’s lucky he’ll never have to taste it, I think he’d prefer that to giving up Quidditch. He really loves it.”

You scoffed. “Of course he does, with people singing about how he’s their king. I’d love playing Quidditch too if I got the ground under my broom worshipped.” Though you said it in a dry, deadpanned tone of voice, Harry found something about your comment funny enough to start snickering beside you. “What?” you asked, confused at his amusement.

“Well,” Harry began, allowing himself a moment to breathe, “Ron always said you were mad at him more than Hermione could be, I just didn’t think it was true.” 

“We’re sworn enemies,” you declared, puffing your chest out proudly.

“Sure you are.” And then, Harry was laughing to himself again, for some unknown reason that made you just as annoyed at the first. But Flitwick turned to face the class once more, so you had to bite your lip as Harry continued laughing, not wanting the entire class to join in at you needing to move seats from being a distraction yet again. 

So it was a few moments later when you asked, with curiosity that burned almost as scorchingly as your voice, “What is that supposed to mean?”

“It doesn’t really mean anything,” Harry said, and you rolled your eyes at his constant lack of eloquence. “Just, Ron literally never stops talking about you. It’s hard to believe he actually considers you his enemy.” 

“I complain about Ron all of the time and I definitely don’t consider him my friend,” you challenged.

If it wasn’t for what Harry said next, the pure shock of it—definitely not how he said it, however, in a decisively low and ambiguous tone—you might have missed his voice underneath the glaring ring of the excusing bell, suggesting, “Maybe it’s something more than that, then.”

Before you could clarify he was gone, next to Ron, and though you automatically deemed every inch of Hogwarts as one not secluded enough to have a conversation about the possibility of having romantic feelings for Ron Weasley, the inch right next to Ron had to be the worst of each other one. So, you carefully picked up your items and placed them in your bag with a leisure contrasting the rapid spinning of your head, hearing his loud and deep voice stray further and further away from where you sat.

A brighter, more fluttery one said your name, snapping you out of your confusion-riddled thoughts. “Y/N, are you ready to go to the Library?” Hermione asked.

“Yeah,” you replied, voice still shaky but nothing compared to your focus as Hermione talked to you about how fascinating Flitwick’s lesson was. Though you smiled at all the right parts and nodded your head when necessary, your mind stayed consumed with the topic of you and Ron liking one another with such ferocity, you felt a sudden and burning need to say his name aloud.

You settled with something characteristic as you and Hermione sat down at your regular table in the Library: “Sorry to force you to sit next to Ron today.”

Hermione shrugged half-heartedly. “He wasn’t that bad. He actually said one well-timed joke. Beyond that, the worst part of it was he wouldn’t shut up until I threatened to charm him bald.”

At first, the concept of a bald Ron made you laugh in its ridiculousness, followed by the realization that you’d miss looking at the unkempt layers of his hair, effortlessly attractive, followed by the realization you had just described his hair as attractive, making you swallow down uncomfortably.

“So, uh, what was he talking about?” you asked, desperate to change subjects.

Besides her typical self, Hermione looked down at her books instead of up in your eye while saying, so unsurely it was almost a question, “you.”

You wanted to let out a slow, shaky exhale, but quaffed instead. “Probably plotting against me, right?” you offered with a light laugh that was so unbelievable, it made your skin crawl.

“Shouldn’t we focus on our homework?” Hermione said, opening up that textbook she had yet to quit staring at, leaving you with nothing to do except oblige. At least, outwardly oblige: your head was still fully absorbing the possibility of being attracted to Ron, Ron and his big head covered with lush hair, his constantly-tightened jaw, his ability to be the only person who can argue with you for over five minutes without losing an ounce of wit in his replies and the only person who could hold a grudge for as long as you. Were you and Ron an instance of mirroring or matching? Finding a perfect person to challenge or one that was so similar they’d feel like home if you allowed them to? 

So it didn’t come as a surprise to yourself that, hours later, when you and Hermione were packing up your bags, agreeing with Hermione that your study session had been particularly productive was a lie. It was a lie followed by more: you having to make up the outline of your “written” Defense Against the Dark Arts essay on the spot, complaining about one particularly horribly-worded part of the textbook you had to decipher for Transfiguration, talking excitedly about all of the flashcards you made for Care of Magical Creatures. But it was believable and lasted long enough for you to drop Hermione at her dormitory without any trace of your true thoughts escaping. 

With deep breaths of relief, you began descending the staircase, your breathing so heavy it could have been audible if the sudden and loud voices radiating from the Common Room didn’t overpower it. If you hadn’t known who both of the voices—one booming and deep, the other slightly raspier—belonged to, you may have not proceeded to stop descending the stairs and push your back against the wall in an attempt to hide your presence. But you knew both so found yourself hiding, rather pathetically, in the dimness of the staircase, trying to even your breathing as much as possible.

The first words you could decipher came from the deeper voice: Ron’s. “I just can’t believe you told her I liked her. What happened to let this secret die with me, possibly being the thing that brought me to the grave?”

“I didn’t necessarily say that,” Harry replied. “I just lightly suggested that maybe the reason you guys fight all the time is because you like one another. There’s a very—”

“A very thin line between love and hate, I know,” Ron interrupted, mockery full in your voice. He even tried to imitate Harry’s raspier voice, unsuccessfully, but the inaccuracy made you have to cover your mouth as laughter threatened to escape from between your lips. “You say that to me every day.”

Something rustled, sounding like someone was sitting down. “Then I’m surprised you don’t believe it by now,” Harry responded.

“I’m not mean because I like her. I’m mean because we fight. It’s what we do. And I’m not going to start being nice to her just to ask her out and get my heart broken because she hates me.”

“She doesn’t hate you!” Harry yelled. It resonated through the Common Room and up to the stairway, making you shiver slightly. Then, in a lower voice, as if he was tightening his jaw, “Sorry, I overreacted. But, to be fair, you’re overreacting more. Why don’t you just try it?”

“Because even if Y/N doesn’t hate me, she probably still thinks I’m a git and won’t date me.” His voice sounded unusually dejected, edging on desperate, and it made your heart ache more than you expected. “But, whatever, it doesn’t matter. I’ll just slowly rot under my sadness and let Y/N date some perfect seventh year. It’s what she deserves.”

There was no other way to describe the fluttering which occurred inside of your chest except for foreign. Your heartbeat stung in your ears, almost loudly enough for you to miss the large exhale of defeat given out—you assumed it was Harry who had breathed it—but not quite. A few low mumbles of condolences were given, the kind that seemed private, so you didn’t mind that you couldn’t follow them beneath the constant crackle of the fireplace; your mind was quite occupied, anyway. So, the next sounds you heard were those of heavy footsteps approaching the boy’s tower, allowing you to find your breath once more as you tiptoed away towards your bedroom. 

You noticed through windows that, somehow, nightfall had occurred during your eavesdropping—you internally called it “accidental overhearing,” something less harsh— of Harry and Ron’s conversation. Therefore, you continued your tiptoeing right through your usually boisterous dorm room, now filled with snoring bodies. With a whisper you casted, “Lumos,” once you arrived at the trunk at the foot of your bed, sticking your wand in your mouth to free your hands to roam around inside. Within a few minutes, you were holding what you had sought to find: a Muggle sling for broken collarbones you used during Second Year.

With the sling pressed close to your chest and your clothes still on, you climbed underneath your covers, dulling the light from your wand. It was a combination of two things which made you stay: firstly, though your roommates were asleep, that by no means meant Ron’s dorm was as quiet, and you weren’t about to get caught delivering a sling to him and secondly, you needed to sort out how you felt. The ceiling felt further away as you let your eyes glaze lazily across it in the minutes approaching midnight. Maybe Harry was right: passion in arguing was similar to the kind of passion crushes force your body through. You definitely thought about Ron with enough fervor and consistency it constituted as a crush-like action. But just because you both happened to hate one another couldn’t mean there was anything more there necessarily.

As one in the morning rolled around, so did you, ruffling your bed sheets but always holding the sling close. Knowing Ron and his obnoxiously loud habits, you assumed he’d be up for at least another hour, screaming with Harry about whatever—maybe me, you thought, making your cheeks burn hotly—and knocking picture frames off of walls. Therefore, you settled on heading up to his dormitory at around three, placing the sling in front of his door with a small note that said, “for Ron,” and, beneath, possibly something nice. Then you would run as fast and quietly as you could away, as if his dorm door was a forest fire. 

As two in the morning rolled around, you found yourself with new words stuck in your mind; no longer did the high-pitched chant of “Weasley is Our King” plague you, instead they were Ron’s, saying, “I’ll just slowly rot under my sadness and let Y/N date some perfect seventh year. It’s what she deserves.” Did Ron really think that much of you, that you were not only capable of dating some made up, extremely attractive older man but, and most importantly, you deserved perfection? From his treatment, you always assumed that, if Ron had any opinion on your dating life in the slightest, it would be you would make a perfect match with some roadside scum. But this surprising contrast brought an even more surprising blush to your cheeks and racing of your heart.

As three in the morning rolled around, your sock-clad feet hit the hardwood floor, sling and note atop your pounding chest. With carefully calculated steps and held-back breaths, you found your way to the Gryffindor Boys Dormitory, begging your Lumos wouldn’t give you away (you kept dimming it off then recasting it, trying to minimize the light in places you could knew well enough to navigate in the dark). But you had found his door, at last, leaning down to place the sling on the floor carefully, your eyes at the threshold beneath the door so you watched loathingly as it opened with a loud creak.

You looked up, seeing a beheadeded Ron, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “Y/N?” he asked. “What are you doing here? It’s three in the morning.” 

Unsure of which would be less embarrassing, you decided to stand instead of kneeling, hitting Ron’s chin with your head on the way up by accident. You jumped back while spitting out multiple apologies, your hand over your mouth in shock. “I’m so sorry. That was definitely an accident. I promise.”

Ron cocked his eyebrow. “Really? Because your goal for six years has been trying to piss me off.”

“Yeah, uh, sorry. I was just dropping that,”—you glanced at the sling momentarily— “off. So, bye.” Before Ron’s pursed lips had time to open and respond, you were walking away quickly, unsteady steps stopped by Ron’s shouting of your name.

When you turned around you almost lost breath, not expecting Ron had been following you. But he stood out of his doorway, only a few feet closer to it than you were, with the sling in his hands. “What is this?” he asked, a confused frown on his face. “It doesn’t really look poisonous or anything. I expected if you ever dropped something off in front of my door, it would be able to kill me in some way.”

“Yeah,” you laughed, distracted at his bedhead and how his voice had a rougher edge to it than usual. And obviously, at his tall frame covered in a tank top and pajama pants, an odd combination which made you flushed for an unknown reason.

“Y/N?” he asked again, causing your eyes to snap up to his. “You still haven’t answered my question.”

“Oh, uh, it’s a sling. For your collarbone. It props your arm up in the correct position to let it heal comfortably.” Ron still had doubt in his eyes as he attempted to lift it over his head, hissing at the pain of that motion. “Here,” you offered, walking forwards and taking the sling in your hands to slide it over his torso and cushion his elbow comfortably. “Tell me if it fits ok. I spelled it bigger.”

Ron’s eyes were still considering the fabric as he asked, “Bigger from what?”

“This was mine from Second Year when I broke my collarbone. I kept it just in case anything happened. I’m pretty clumsy.” As your voice faded out, you allowed a small chuckle to fade in, trying to cut the tension as Ron’s squinted eyes looked right into yours.

“Why are you helping me?” he asked, jaw tightened. Always tightened and your voice was shaky.

“I just thought—”

“And what’s this?” Ron felt around the inside of his sling, pulling out the note you had conveniently not pointed out, though you could see the outline of it pressing against the fabric from your wand’s light. He unfolded it, reading aloud, “I don’t hate you. What’s that supposed to mean?” he seethed, free arm gesturing the note in the space between your bodies.

“Listen, I overheard you talking to Harry about me earlier and—”

Ron’s eyes went wide and wild like a storm was brewing inside of them. “You spied on us?”

“Stop interrupting me,” you said lowly. “Yes, I may have heard some things I wasn’t supposed to but I’m glad I did. Because I don’t hate you, Ron.”

Those wild eyes rolled into his skull. “Lovely. You know I’m crazy about you and you just ‘don’t hate me’. Thank you for making my life so much better.”

Usually, you could just quip back without a beat, but you breathed slowly after his comment, fists balled at your sides, body shaking uncharacteristically. “You know,” you breathed, “I keep trying to be nice to you and you just treat me like shit in return. How do you expect me to like you? After saying I deserve someone perfect, why do you keep pulling yourself down? I don’t understand.”

“Because it’s easier to be your enemy and be rejected for things I’m not than be your friend and be rejected for the things I am.” You weren’t expecting such honesty; your throat closed then gulped after you felt his words hit you firmly in the chest, almost winding you. You also weren’t expecting the soft brush of Ron’s hand against your wrist, grasping it so lightly you may not have noticed if it weren’t for the electric flickers that shot up your arm from the contact. “But, to be honest, I think you are the most beautiful and brilliant person I’ve ever met. But I guess you already knew that.”

You smiled up at him warmly, loving how soft his face looked in the dim light of your Lumos. “I don’t mind hearing it from you, though. It’s nice.”

“Nice like warm butterbeer on a cold day? Or nice like you feel the same about me?” He was fighting a smile; if his struggle against it wasn’t so painfully obvious, you may not have noticed it, since he rarely smiled in front of you.

“Nice, like, I prefer this over fighting with you all the time. I don’t know exactly how I feel, to be honest.”

“Oh,” Ron frowned, cutting off his smile. “Can I offer you some assistance?” You snickered slightly while nodding at him. “Well, you came here in the middle of the night with a charmed sling thing to give me, which would not only help me feel better but also had the potential of getting you caught by a professor.”

“I’m being a good friend,” you muttered. “I didn’t mean to see you. Hence the note. I didn’t even want you to know I left this.”

You weren’t sure why Ron’s smile had reappeared, until he responded, “Hm, all of this secrecy sounds scary similar to someone trying to be mean to you just to push you away in fear of being rejected.”

“I just didn’t want to make you feel like you owed me something for this.”

Then Ron was laughing, fully, the kind that takes over bodies and his was shaking violently, threatening to wake everyone in the Gryffindor tower. “Y/N, I already liked you. And now, possibly more, since you cared about me. But I can’t owe you anything because I already like you. And you knew that.”

You scoffed slightly, arching your brow at his tensed jaw. Always tensed. “Are you trying to argue me into having feelings for you?” you asked.

Ron shrugged. “I seem to be pretty good at arguing with you. Figured I’d give it a shot.”

“You are,” you agreed, nodding. “We are… good at fighting, I mean. Does it worry you? Make you think we’re not compatible or anything?”

With a languid step, Ron moved closer to you, closer than he had ever stood before, hand still on your elbow and never ceasing you make you feel just slightly set on fire. The close proximity of his voice, the heat of it hitting your already flushed skin, only intensified the feeling. “It makes me think we’re perfect for each other,” he admitted, softly, like it was a secret (it probably used to be one). “We are the only two people who drive each other this crazy. You are the only person who can shut me down. I like being challenged. Why do you think I play Quidditch?”

“Because people scream that you’re their king?” you replied dryly. It was too easy to taunt Ron, especially when it was the perfect front to your true feelings.

“Yeah,” he laughed, “It’s nice to get praised and all. But that’s just a cool side-effect. Like, if I got to date you, I’d also maybe get to kiss you. I’m not dating you just to kiss you, but, I mean, I’m not opposed to that concept.”

“You’re good at talking to girls when you’re not busy fighting with them,” you smirked, eyes suddenly finding it hard to look anywhere except his lips, spread wide in a grin and almost as pink as the flushed cheeks they pressed up against. 

“When you have five brothers who all have hit on girls in front of you, you kind of learn it fast.” 

You were looking up at him, the whole of him, not just the jaw or knit eyebrows you usually stared at to get a rise out of, but the dusting of freckles, the roundness of his cheeks, the beautiful blue of his eyes. It should have surprised you but didn’t, the way looking at him rendered you breathless a bit as you asked, “Does this still count as fighting?”

“No.” He was still grinning, grinning as if that’s all he knew. “This is just… just friendly ribbing. That’s all.” 

“Friendly? I thought you wanted to be more than friends.” You stepped closer into his space as if to accentuate your point, loving how his breath visibly hitched, throat swallowing deeply, at your movement. 

“Yeah. Do you?”

His voice was as winded at it was tender, and in that moment you decided you liked Ron honest and getting all flustered from his own candidness, could get used to seeing him looking at you nervously instead of in rage. That you preferred it, truthfully. Liked it and liked it so ardently, you wanted to stay and see more.

So you leaned into his lips, those plump ones you used to sneer at for emitting some of the world’s craziest comebacks, surprised that they tasted like minty toothpaste as opposed to distasteful words. Ron opened his mouth, somehow both tentatively and with overwhelming enthusiasm—for being the one who liked you first and knew it, he was somehow so confused, and adorably so—and you kissed into him with slow motions and quiet little noises. 

It was quick and when you pulled back you missed it, but Ron was smiling so brightly it shone through his eyes so you pressed your forehead into his, freeing your wrist from his grasp to wrap it around his neck carefully. “Yeah,” you grinned, the only source of light that threatened Ron’s in terms of brightness (though your wand was still aglow, it was like a faraway star in comparison to Ron’s being the sun). It was the first time you had lost to him and maybe, maybe, you could be okay with losing, as long as it meant kissing him. 

So you leaned in once more.

**Author's Note:**

> This was requested by @bluemadcnna on Tumblr. Find me there under the same name @madforscamander.


End file.
